Deadly Intent (4 page)

"The blood spattering, ma'am."

"What about it?"

"From what I could see, if the victim was shot in the head
through
the door—"

"Yes?"

"The forensic team were still checking when I left—"

"I am aware of that. Travis."

"Well, from what I could determine—"

"Get to the point!" Cunningham snapped.

"The wall directly behind the Victim showed only a small spray of blood."

"So? What do you conclude?"

"Someone could have been standing behind him."

"Thank you, well observed. We'll obviously wait, as with everything else, for the scientists to give their report. Anyone else?"

No one else brought up any developments. By now, it was almost midday and Cunningham, with the duty manager, gave out assignments. Travis was to be accompanied by Gordon Loach to question Mrs. Webster, the woman who had put the call in to the station. As the team broke up, Anna had still not been formally introduced to the main officers leading the inquiry. Cunningham had returned to her office.

Anna and Gordon traveled back to the murder site in a patrol car, with Anna driving. "How long have you been attached to the Murder Squad?" Anna asked from behind the wheel.

Gordon flushed, which wasn't too difficult; his cheeks seemed to be pinkish all the time. "Two weeks. This is my first time out." "Ah ..

"To be honest, I'm really sort of unsure what all the procedures are. I mean, I know from training, but being in the thick of it is different." "Yes."

"My father was an officer."

"So was mine."

"He's now Deputy Commissioner."

Anna turned to look at the young man. "Really?"

"What about yours?"

"He was a Detective Inspector, Murder Squad, but he retired. He died five years ago."

"Oh!" Gordon changed the subject. "What do you think happened?"

"You mean the shooting?"

"Yes."

"I can't really say. We always know more when all the tests have been completed."

"But you think you recognized the victim?"

"No. I said I knew Frank Brandon, who owned the ID card found in the victim's wallet. I never got a look at the victim's face."

"But if it was him, this is serious. I mean, he was a police officer."

"Correct."

"So what do you think happened?" the young man repeated.

"As I just said, I don't really know. Our job, Gordon, is to find out. So, we question the neighbor, see if she has anything we can work on."

"Right. It's a terrible shithole, the Warren Estate."

"Some people don't have a choice," Anna said.

"Where do you live?"

She hesitated. "I've just moved into a new place over near Tower Bridge."

"I still live with my mother," the young man told her. "My parents are separated, long time ago. I want to get a place of my own eventually, but it's really hard to find anywhere I can afford. I've seen a few places, but all out of my league. Was your flat expensive?"

"Very," she said, sounding more curt than she meant to. "Okay, here we are."

The forensic teams remained at work. Arc lamps still lit up the dingy

flat and tapes cordoned off" the area. The body must have been removed, as there was no longer an ambulance on standby. Anna and Gordon headed up the stone staircase and branched off" to where there were still residents.

"It's number 18A," Gordon said.

"Yes, I know." Anna walked a little ahead of him until they reached the front door. The paint was fresh, but the letterbox was boarded up; a smashed side window had a piece of board nailed across it. Anna knocked. They waited awhile; she had to knock again, before they heard footsteps.

"Who is it?" came a voice.

"I'm from the police, Mrs. Webster. Detective Inspector Anna Travis."

Chains were scraped back and the door was inched open. "Have you got identification?"

Anna showed her badge and then gestured to Gordon." I'm accompanied by Detective Constable Loach." She stepped away slightly so Mrs. Webster could see Gordon.

The door closed, but then the chain was released and it opened. "Come in," said Mrs. Webster nervously.

The hallway was neat and clean, with floral carpet and wallpaper, but very narrow. The tiny woman gestured for them to move ahead. "Go into the sitting room, please. It's on the right."

"Thank you," Anna said as she and Gordon entered the first room off the hallway. The flat had the same layout as the drug squat, but that was the only point of comparison. Mrs. Webster's sitting room was cluttered, with an overstuffed sofa and two chairs in front of a fake coal electric fire. There were numerous cabinets with china and ornaments in them and a large television.

Mrs. Webster had white hair, cut in a neat style rather like the Queen's. She was wearing a twinset and pearls, a pleated woolen skirt, and stretch stockings over her puffy ankles; fluffy suede slippers encased her feet. "Do you want tea or coffee?"

"Nothing, thank you."

"Sit down, please."

Both Anna and Gordon sat on the easy chairs. "Mrs. Webster, you made the 999 call—"Anna began, then was interrupted.

"Yes, yes, I called the police."

"Can you tell me exactly what was happening before you put in the call?"

"Well, I've said all this before."

"I know, but 1 just need to go over a few things."

"I was in bed and I woke up. Well, the sounds woke me up."

"The sounds?"

"Yes—raised voices and then a sort of loud bang, bang, bang sound. It was so loud, I was worried Jeremy would be woken up."

"Jeremy?"

"My son. He sleeps in the bedroom at the back of the flat. I'm in the front, but it was so loud."

"Did it wake him?"

"No. Well, not at first it didn't, because there was a sort of lull—you know, nothing happening—but by this time, 1 was up."

"What time was that?"

"It was three-fifteen."

"So then what happened?"

"I checked on Jeremy and, just as I was closing his door, there was another pop, this time not so loud—then it went pop, pop, again. I see enough TV to know what the sound was: gunfire. So I called the police."

"Did you leave the flat at all?"

"No, no, I was too scared."

"Did your son?"

"No, he came in here and sat with me until the police arrived."

"How old is your son?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just for the record."

"He's thirty-four."

"And he lives here with you?"

"Yes."

"Is he at home now?"

Mrs. Webster looked toward the closed door and back to Anna. "He's in his room, "she said carefully." Is it necessary you talk to him?"

"It is, but let's just continue with you for now. You called the police?"

"I never set foot out of the front door at night; it's too risky. I've complained that the squatters have moved in and it's been going on, over and over again. In fact, when I rang 999,1 didn't think they would take me seriously, because of how many times I've called them. There's needles and filth left on the walkways, and there are still children living here. It's every night, and most of the day now; they come and they go, these junkies. It's worse at night, because of the cars and motorbikes, the lights, shining into my windows, and the noise, shouting and screaming. I know two residents called the police because they found a girl doped up and being sick; another time, a boy was found overdosed. It's like living in a nightmare that never stops."

Anna let the woman talk on until she seemed to deflate, sighing.

"The people using the flat... did you know any names? Can you describe anyone? Maybe someone you have seen on a regular basis?"

"No, they all look alike—hoods up, gray anoraks. They don't look at me; they just ignore the existence of anyone else living here. The council have done nothing to help us get rehoused."

"How many would you say were living in the squat?"

"I couldn't tell you; they came and they went. Sometimes there were girls but, most times, they were just lads. Late at night the cars would pull up. I think these were bringing the drugs because then it would start, the noise, the banging, the bikes and cars, coming to get whatever they needed."

"Last night—the night of the shooting—did you notice anything different?"

"No. Like I said, at seven, I shut my front door and I bolt it and I don't go out. I turn the TV up loud and that's it."

"What about your son?"

"He never goes out much."

"I'm sorry—your son doesn't go out?"

"Not a lot, unless they come for him."

"Who comes, Mrs. Webster?"

"The social services. They come and take him for his swimming and then, on Wednesdays, he goes to a special unit at Camden."

"Is your son ill? I mean, is he disabled?"

"No."

"I would like to talk to him."

"He doesn't know anything."

"He might."

"I just don't want him upset. This has all been very stressful for him, you know. I’ll try and keep him as calm as I can. But when these things happen, he gets very upset. He's afraid they might come after me because I called the police."

"Mrs. Webster, I assure you since the shooting, I doubt very much there will be any activity there again."

"Well, I have to say, since it happened it's been quiet, apart from all the police, and the neighbors trying to find out what is going on."

"It must be a very difficult time for you." Anna closed her notebook and stood up. "May I meet your son now?"

Mrs. Webster glanced at the clock on the mantel and licked her lips. "Jeremy has autism. Sometimes he can be a bit difficult. Other times he's fine. Can you give me a few minutes?"

Anna nodded and smiled as Mrs. Webster left the room.

"It's not right, is it?" Gordon said quietly.

Anna looked at him, as if to say. "What isn't?"

"Forced to live in this place, son dependent on you, having junkies day and night just up the corridor. It's disgusting."

"It looks as if the council is making moves to rehouse everyone."

"In the meantime, they have to put up with junkies and dealers."

Anna listened: she heard raised voices. Mrs. Webster was trying to persuade her son to dress; he was refusing, as he was watching something on television. They could hear a low, almost growling voice muttering, and Mrs. Webster trying to cajole him.

Anna stood up and looked over to Gordon. "Maybe we should come back."

Jeremy was refusing to come out of his room. Mrs. Webster was apologetic. "You see, he does the trolleys in our big Waitrose—you know.

collecting them from the car park. It's just a couple of mornings, but he wants to finish watching his DVD."

Anna and Gordon made visits to the neighbors, but without much success. Everyone said virtually the same thing: they locked their front doors at night and stayed inside. A number had complained about the drug dealing and a few had called the police out many times.

They returned to the station and added to the incident board the times that Mrs. Webster believed the gunshots had been fired. Anna was keen to know more about their victim, but they were still waiting on the forensic and pathology reports. For lunch she had a sandwich in her office as she typed up her report. She was surprised when her door was tapped and opened before she could say anything.

Cunningham closed the door behind her. "Tell me what you know about Frank Brandon."

Anna licked her lips. This would obviously mean discussing the case the two of them had been on together, which meant the possibility of mentioning DCI Langton's name. She hated the fact that, after all this time—almost eighteen months—the sound of his name still made her heart and head ache.

"We were on a really horrific case. The bodies were found in the pigpens."

"Ah yes, I remember that. So Frank was with you on it, was he?"

"Yes. 1 didn't really know him on a personal level."

"He took early retirement.. .something about a knee injury."

"I didn't know that."

"Before that, he had been with the Drug Squad."

"I didn't know that either."

Cunningham had an unnerving way of standing with her arms folded, looking around the room rather than making eye contact. "So you wouldn't know if he was using?"